


A Gateway Through

by peasantswhy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots. Ratings will change with each chapter.





	1. Syzygy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrían has a secret. Turns out Elrond and Ereinion do too.
> 
> Rating: Teen & Up Audiences

Somehow, she feels she should’ve known better. Her mother, after all, would never have done something so _colossally_ stupid. Can’t be helped now, she supposes, and it’s going to take the rest of her remaining wit and strength just to get through this.

Celebrían stands nestled against the curve of the alcove, the hem of her light tunic clenched in her hand. Across from her, blushed golden in the early morning sun, Elrond complains about some new Court scandal, his thin, elegant hands fluttering like birds’ wings as he speaks.

They’re waiting for Ereinion to get out of some council meeting or another so they can go out and hunt, just the three of them. It’s so rare that they manage to get chunks of time together longer than a few hours (much less the _three_ of them together, damn Ereinion and that crown) and now, on the first day of spring, they have the whole day to ride around, free of any obligation. So they had agreed upon their usual meeting place, a tiny alcove tucked along the outer wall of the palace that’s close enough to the stables to make a quick getaway but hidden enough among the shrubbery that it’s unlikely there will be spies—just the sort of playfully sneaky place she loves. Celebrían had been looking forward to this for _days,_ but now she’s not so sure.

Out here, in this tucked-away corner of the Royal Grounds, Elrond’s smile comes easy and his laughter quick, crow’s feet lines of happiness never leaving his eyes. So often in Court he wears seriousness like a robe wrapped around his body, but here, in this lull before they set out on their hunt, he reveals the brilliance and tenderness of his inner self. She watches him, half engaged with the conversation and half curling in on herself with dread. Her secret weighs heavy on her, stopping up her words like a nail through her tongue.

 _Elrond._ They hadn’t started out as friends, not at first—her mother takes some getting used to on a good day—but after a few visits and enough time spent in each other’s presence they had gone from chilly acquaintances to best friends. Celebrían, privately, thinks it was the moment she grew old enough to attend Council meetings with her mother and the two of them developed an intricate language of subtle eye-rolls. She’s well past her majority now and they’ve been nearly inseparable ever since, fast friends forever trading letters whenever they’re apart and notes slipped under bedroom doors when they’re not.

Celebrían thinks he looks best like this, with the lean length of his body cut sharp in his light hunting-tunic, his hair glinting with deep red highlights next to the copper of his circlet, the quiet gurgle of a nearby stream matching his soft voice.

But she isn’t looking at the long length of his body at the moment (though that is unfortunately becoming one of her favorite pastimes) no, she is staring at the dark purple bruise rising just above Elrond’s collar. His rich sable hair, worn loose today, had been doing a remarkable job of hiding it and she has a hunch that, for most, it would have been invisible—but not for her. No, she knows a hickey when she sees one, and she knows who gave it to him too. There’s only one mouth that Elrond would ever let near his neck—and it’s not hers. She narrows her eyes at the bruise, images of a bright smile rising unbidden (and _unwanted_ ) in her mind.

The King, in general, presents himself as, well, a good king—which is to say equal measures merciful and just and serious and heartfelt and knowledgeable and generous, all the sorts of things everyone expects out of a King. He looks like one too, like one of those story-book Kings, all silver eyes and lean grace and _miles_ of wheat-gold hair. There are songs about him, Gil-galad the Shining Star, which she finds annoying when she’s not busy agreeing with them.

But no matter how everyone else knows him _she_ knows him as _Ereinion,_ as the cunning fox he truly is. It had all started out when she and her parents came for a visit when she was only ten years old and she had caught him out on a very subtle and very intricate lie. She’d confronted him about it in private, marching her tiny self up to him and demanding an explanation. He had looked down at her with surprise (a look she hasn’t seen since) and had apparently decided right then and there that this tiny, furious creature would make a good friend. And they are, even to this day—she’s nearly as good a friend with Ereinion as she is with Elrond, to her mother’s endless displeasure.

All this to say that she _knows_ him, knows Elrond, and she knows that Elrond got that hickey from Ereinion’s mouth, true as day.

She twines a lock of heir hair in her fingers, more to hide the blush surely creeping up her neck than anything else. Elrond continues on, ignorant of her odd silence.

She _can’t_ help it. Elrond’s face appears in her mind’s eye, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted in pleasure. Ereinion leans down over his neck with a wicked grin and his hand, buried in Elrond’s hair, tugs back to reveal a creamy-pale swath of skin, lips ghosting over skin before—

“Did you hear what I just said?” Elrond’s voice yanks her to the present.

She blinks. “N-no, I didn’t.” Well, there’s no hiding that blush now.

Elrond frowns at her. “Are you feeling alright today?” He asks. “You’ve been a little distant. Is something wrong?” And he’s kind and attentive too, damn him.

“How long have you been seeing Ereinion?” She blurts out before immediately slapping a hand over her traitorous mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles around her fingers. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

His eyes go wide. “How—how did you know?” his brow furrows. He looks halfway between confused and frightened, eyes wide as a doe’s.

“Elrond.” She rolls her eyes. “You have a hickey.”

Elrond’s hand rises to his neck and he groans, sinking back. “Damn. And we’d been so careful too—but wait,” he turns back to her eyes narrowed. “How did you know it was him? I could’ve gotten this anywhere.”

“Elrond.” She gives him a look. “If had been literally anyone else, you would have told me.”

He gives a wry half-smile at that. “I suppose I would have, wouldn’t I?” he leans back against the wall, grimacing. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you anyway.”

Oh, and he looks so horridly guilty, like he thinks he actually did something wrong, and she was just going to let the subject drop but now she can’t. “It’s ok,” She leans over and places her hand on his arm, trying desperately to act normal. “I understand. He’s _the King_ , those sorts of things _have_ to be secret.”

He sighs. “If it makes any difference we were going to tell you soon—probably today, actually—now that this whole business with Oropher and your Mother is over.” His face scrunches up in a frown. “I hate secrets, especially when I have to keep them from someone like you, but this nonsense has been dragging on for literal years and he didn’t want _anything_ about us getting out.”

Her eyes go wide. “You’ve been seeing him for _years?!_ ”

“No!” he waves his hands. “No, not years. Months. A few months now.”

 _Months._ She’d been a fool for _months_ now and hadn’t even noticed it.

Elrond looks up at her thought his lashes, his shoulders still slumped. “Are you angry with me? With him?”

She huffs out a sigh. “No, not really. I’m a little angry with myself, to be honest.” It slips out before she can stop it—oh, she is a right mess today.

He cocks his head. “Yourself? Why?”

“I—” and she nearly says it, she does, just to get it out in the open so she can get this all over with. But she hesitates, unable to go further.

“Celebrían?” oh, and he says her name like a dream, like honey on his tongue. When Ereinion says it it’s like lightning, like popping fireworks in his teeth and she—she’s scared. Scared she won’t hear either of those two beloved voices say her name like that again. Scared she’ll mess this up for good.

Oh yes, her mother never would’ve done something as incredibly idiotic as _fall in love_ with _both_ her best friends at once.

She grits her teeth and makes herself _think_ beyond her fear. If she keeps this from him her friendships with them will separate on her end, not theirs. She’ll get awkward, especially now that they’re together, and then it’ll only take a few months’ visit in Eregion before the three of them will lose step. Even worse, they’ll blame themselves, feeling like they pushed her away with their relationship, and that—if it goes as badly as she thinks it could—might even be too much for them to handle on top of all their others stresses. It might break them, or at the very least wound them. And she won’t let that happen.

She sighs. “I—I’m a little jealous,” she says, pressing her palms against her burning cheeks.

Elrond blinks, understanding dawning on his face in a great big _O._ “You—you’re _jealous?_ Of what, that we spend more time together than with you or—”

She glares at him. “Don’t make me say it. I’m embarrassed enough already.”

He goes still. His face holds a careful blankness. “Which one of us are you jealous of?” he asks, cautious.

She groans and flops back against the wall. “ _Both_ of you, idiot. As if I could choose between the two of you.” She’s a little snappish right now and she’s sorry for it. She’ll have to make it up to him later, after she’s had a good scream in her pillow.

“Hello you two,” a cheery voice says and Ereinion slips out of the shrubs into the alcove. “What are you up to?”

Aw, _fuck._

And doesn’t he just look like the dawn incarnate? Ereinion stands at the mouth of the alcove in his casual tunic, the fabric of it light and thin enough that she can see the planes of his pale skin beneath. He watches her with those silver-grey eyes, a smile on his lips, just looking so _pleased_ to see her.

Elrond coughs. “She knows.”

Ereinion’s eyebrows rise. “Does she now? Did you tell her?” He doesn’t look alarmed at all, nor, in truth, surprised.

“That hickey’s speaking loud enough for the both of you.” Celebrían rolls her eyes. The stone under her hands burns as she digs her fingertips in.

There’s a smug little curl in Ereinion’s mouth now. “Too true,” he says with a smirk to Elrond. But when he turns to her he’s all soft again, and he puts his hand on her arm. “Are you angry with us?” He asks. “Elrond was very worried.”

She sighs, lifting her own hand to his arm. Why is it she can’t resist these two? “No, not angry at all, just…” she trails off. It was bad enough telling Elrond—can’t he just tell Ereinion for her?

“Just what?” Ereinion presses, rubbing little circles with his thumb.

 _I’m jealous. I want you. Both of you. And I know I can’t have you._ She snaps her mouth shut, looking to Elrond for help.

But Elrond doesn’t look concerned, or even perturbed. He’s blushing _hard,_ all the way up to the tips of his ears, and his eyes hold some strange fire. He remains completely silent, despite her glare.

No help, then. She looks to Ereinion, and sets her teeth. “I’m a little jealous,” she repeats. “I… might be experiencing…” she screws up her face. “The slightest bit of infatuation. For the both of you.”

She half expects to see surprise on Ereinion’s face, or concern—not pity, thank the gods, he’d never do that to her—but she certainly didn’t expect to see _this,_ this full, delighted grin stretching across his face. “Are you now,” he purrs, his hand drifting down her arm to skim against her hip. His grey eyes lower, his pale lashes sweeping across his freckled cheeks. His pink tongue—oh, _damn him_ —licks along his lower lip as if tasting the air, scenting her.

Her jaw drops. “I—” she looks to Elrond, who, yes, _definitely_ looking at her with heat in his eyes, though that’s clouded with a fair about of blushing embarrassment too—

“He thought you might,” Elrond says. “Fall for both of us, that is.”

“Now,” she holds up a finger, intending to make a point but Ereinion’s somehow slipped his hand under her riding tunic and is now pressing his bare palm against her skin and what? Is going on?

Elrond bites his lip. “I thought you’d never go for _either_ of us, but he said you would, both of us, that is, and um,” He holds up his hands, palms out, apologetic. “We might’ve made a bet.”

“A _bet?!”_ She snarls but she can’t seem to move beyond that, not when Ereinion’s moved his palm to the small of her back, every so slightly pressing her closer into the lee of his side. _He_ has the biggest smile she’s ever seen on his face, and oh, is—is that a blush? The tips of his ears are stained pink. She might be dreaming.

Elrond nods. “He, um, gets to kiss you first.”

Her eyes go wide and she snaps her head to look at Ereinion so hard she thinks she might see stars. “ _Kiss me first?!”_

“May I?” He murmurs, suddenly _very close,_ his free hand coming up to brush his knuckles along her cheek. Oh and that _—_ that tender touch— _that_ isn’t a dream—

She blinks. “I suppose so.”

He bites his lip and _then—_

His mouth meets hers, one soft touch flaring into _fire,_ his mouth opening to hers and she, clutching weakly at his arms and _oh by the gods, how—_ she opens back and the heat of his tongue curls in her mouth, brilliant as liquid lightning. His hands press harder against her skin, drawing her flush against his body before rising higher, rucking her tunic up so he can run his hands along her back, up her sides—she breaks the kiss to gasp, catching the breath he steals from her, but he just growls “Oh no, I’m not finished with you _yet—”_ against her mouth before diving back in, this time with _teeth_ sharp on her lips. And then, well, what is there left to do but throw her arm around his neck and bury her hands in his hair, drag him down and _claim_ him—

They only stop when she feels a third hand on her back, sneaking up to rub a thumb along her spine. She pulls away from Ereinion’s mouth long enough to moan as Elrond sidles up behind her, his mouth on her now-bare—when did _that_ happen— shoulder, breath hot on her skin.

“I believe, my dear,” Ereinion whispers in her ear. “That we have been remiss in our attentions toward you.”

She gasps—Elrond’s got his hands under her tunic caressing up her belly and oh, she is _more than fine_ with the direction this is going—“Well then,” she manages a smug smile, the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth. “I’m sure you’ll just have to make it up to me.”


	2. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel returns on the eve of the War of Wrath along with the rest of Eönwë's host. Erestor doesn't know how he feels about that.
> 
> Rating: Teen & Up Audiences

The whispers always asked the wrong questions.

_But why him? Why not Ecthelion, slayer of Gothmog? Or Rog, whose hammer brought down six balrogs before he fell? For that matter, why not return to us one of our Kings, one who pierced Morgoth’s heel? Why send merely the prettiest of the Lords of the Gondolindrim, when so many mightier might have come instead?_

Erestor licked his chapped lips and tasted the wet stink of air gone sour. The assembled nobles milled around the King’s table, a cluster of chickens thrown into disarray. Some sick mixture of despair, freshened with confusion and a whisper of hope churned the inside of the tent into a morass thick as battlefield mud. Whispers ebbed and swayed with a congealed, oily tang. Erestor, seated at the far end of the table next to his Lords and their charges, wished desperately for a glass of cool water or a moment of silence, knowing neither would come to him any time soon. At least the nobles kept their distance— not even Elrond and Elros, tucked into Maedhros and Maglor’s sides, could induce them to get within sword’s reach of a Fëanorion.

At the head of the table, slumped casual in his chair, sat Gil-galad, looking with a thin appraising eye at his great-grandsire, who sat opposite him. Finarfin’s face was set with a grim determination, his pale, salt-worn fingers threaded in his lap. The two hadn’t spoken much to each other, not since Eönwë and his host had swooped down like a flock of starlings and changed everything. Erestor got the impression that Gil-galad, new to the throne but already well-seasoned in Kingship, misliked having his authority challenged just as much as Finarfin misliked being here in the first place. The nobles, an uncertain mixture of Finarfin and Gil-galad’s courts, kept their voices low enough to be unheard by the Kings as they grumbled amongst themselves. Those who trusted Gil-galad distrusted Finarfin, those who followed Finarfin balked at Gil-galad, on and on it went. The only thing anyone could seem to agree on was that _no one_ liked Eönwë—savior he might be, but his footsteps rang too loud for his seeming weight and if one looked at him askance one couldn’t be sure, exactly, how many eyes he had. Lucky for the world—and this was the other thing everyone agreed on—that he seemed firmly leashed and collared by Eärendil, the fabled _star-bringer._

_The golden one follows the sire, but the star-bringer’s sons lean towards the begotten. But can we trust those twins when they have long been held in kinslaying hands? But shall we listen to one not of our own Houses or lineage? He died valorously, true, but who among us does not know ten such as he?_

It was the muttering of fools—poor, lost, grieving fools who had long prayed for succor only to find it answered far too late. What use now were Eönwë’s condescending wings to ruined Doriath, to gutted Nargothrond, fallen Gondolin? What was mercy when it was bought with a Simaril—a stolen one, at that? If one beloved dead could return, then why not all? Questions like these sat in the stomach like a bezoar, unyielding and unanswered. So where could their bile go but out in fruitless sneers, immaterial complaints— which King deserves the crown, why was this Lord given and not another?

Erestor watched the proceedings with a flat attention, his fury slowly rising. He had borne the news of Gondolin’s sack to this court’s very ears himself, but now he was beginning to wish he had kept his mouth shut if his words were to fall on such ears as these. There was much rumormongering of late, as those cloistered away in Valinor heard third-hand from their peers the destruction they had conveniently avoided. Erestor only barely kept a sneer from his face—these kittens, these cooing turtledoves, who were they to pass judgment here?

And then there was the matter of the stolen Simaril. No one called it that, saying instead _the star_ or _the jewel._ No one even dared think _the theft, the oath._ The Fëanorion brothers stood as well as their battered spirits allowed, Elrond and Elros seated on the bench in front of them at Erestor’s side. Maedhros, standing with Elros’ right hand tucked in his hale left, had rings under his eyes deep as ravines. Maglor too wore a look of devastated hopelessness, his hand running and twining in Elrond’s hair with an obsessive twitch. Both brothers kept their eyes fixed on the Kings, their gazes asking one thing only: _Give us what is ours. Do not make us choose between destroying ourselves and killing their parents. For their sake, and for the sake of the love we bear them. Please._

Gil-galad, Erestor noted, had marked their gazes and every now and again would look down the length of the table with a soft, placating glance. He answered, _if it is in my power, yes._ A good answer, Erestor thought, even if it might prove a lie later on. Finarfin kept his eyes resolutely away. 

But, despite his duty and loyalty and love to those beside him, Erestor’s eyes kept slipping to the Golden One standing at attention behind Finarfin’s shoulder.

 _Glorfindel._ Erestor felt his mouth run dry. It was easier to watch him like this, when he couldn’t watch back. He deliberately didn’t let himself look head-on, knowing that if he did he’s crumble away, easy as a sandcastle.

The reborn elf stood stiff and straight at the King’s side, his burnished armor refracting the flames from the brazier behind him in flashes of orange and crimson. His wealth of golden hair, tumbling bright as any dragon’s hoard, was tied high with a blue ribbon to match his aquamarine eyes. Sure and strong, his shoulders were set with strength and battle-readiness.

In general, he looked _terrible._

Erestor winced. _He_ remembered a Lord who peeled off his armor at the soonest opportunity, unhappiness and disgust writ large in his body until he was completely free of any battle-raiment. _He_ remembered a Lord who would rather garden than spar, whose only joy in battle was the homecoming and the occasional brutal smile at a swift, clean kill. _He_ remembered _Glorfindel,_ not the balrog-slayer but the gentle elf with a quick smile and a low, welcoming laugh.

Elrond stirred beside him, leaning into Erestor’s side. “What are they talking about?” He whispered, tucking his head along Erestor’s shoulders.

Erestor slipped his arm around his young pupil, comforting. “They are wondering why the Valar sent Lord Glorfindel back to us from the dead,” he whispered back, low enough to be unheard by unkind ears. “They wonder why they didn’t send Ecthelion, or even Fingolfin back instead.” He didn’t mention the rumors around the _star-bringer’s sons—_ Elrond and Elros were barely fifteen, he would protect them a little longer.

“Did you know Lord Glorfindel?” He asked. His amber-brown eyes, when Erestor met them, were sad and scared.

“I did,” Erestor replied. Perhaps a little story might help soothe him. Besides, it was easy to talk to the twins, and perhaps speaking it all out loud would calm the riptide in his chest. “I lived in his House while I was in Gondolin. No one else would take me, you see,” he leaned close, conspiratorial. “If you think I am strict in your lessons, imagine the terror I must have wrought on the minds of the Gondolindrim!”

Elrond giggled, a little of his worry slipping. “You _say_ that, but you actually like us. I know you do.”

Erestor sighed. “I suppose I _might_ be _slightly_ fond of you,” he conceded. “But I was _not_ fond of the Gondolindrim.”

Elros had noticed their conversation now, and had shifted closer to listen. Maglor’s shoulders relaxed an infinitesimal amount, enough to put Erestor more at ease.  

“Why didn’t you like them?” Elrond continued.

Erestor pursed his lips. “For many reasons, perhaps the chiefest of which was that they didn’t much like me either.” He leaned closer. “I might’ve been a little more cranky than usual. Being cooped up in a mountain fortress isn’t much fun.”

Elros snorted. Maedhros’ eyes fluttered in the barest roll. Some of the nobles downwind began noticing their little conversation and were growing more nervous, to Erestor’s secret delight.

“So why did they send Lord Glorfindel back?” Elrond looked to the head of the table. Glorfindel was watching them—perhaps his reborn ears had picked his name spoken amongst the crowd.

“Well they didn’t consult me, that’s for certain,” Erestor deadpanned. “But this time I think they knew what they were doing.”

And that was something Erestor _knew,_ knew just as much as he knew the feel of ink on his callouses, the give of grass under his feet, the burning of the coal of love in his heart for Elrond and Elros— he _knew_ Glorfindel was _meant_ to be here, knew that of all the fallen heroes of Beleriand they needed _him_ most.

“Why do you think that?” Elros said, and his voice was wafer-thin and fragile. His hand, clasped in Maedhros’, tightened.

“Well,” Erestor reached over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Elros’ ear. “He may not be the wisest, nor the strongest, nor the fairest.”

Elros’ brow furrowed. “Then why’s he so special?” His voice broke. “Why’d they send him back?”

Erestor smiled, soft and sure, and ran a hand over Elros’ hair. “Because he is the _kindest._ And if this world is to live again then we will need kindness above all else.”

 

~*~

 

The meeting ended, as most things did, in a stalemate. Nobles dispersed into the night, with Maedhros and Maglor still left in the lurch as to their own fates. But Elrond and Elros stayed with them, not with their blood-born parents, and that meant something wonderful and devastating and infinite in the hearts of the Fëanorian brothers.

Erestor, after making sure the twins were safe and warm and peaceful for the night, excused himself from his Lord’s company and slipped out of their tent.

The sky hung with a strange orange hue, low clouds and banks of smog from Morgoth’s fires reflecting a low glow down at them. No stars, save for the few glimmering above Eönwë’s tent, the selfish bastard. Fires, stoked in braziers and burning with sage to cleanse the air, cast fey shadows over the faces of those who stood above them. The camp was strangely subdued tonight, a breath held in nauseated anticipation. Erestor, misliking some of the looks a few stray guards gave him, ducked his head and hurried on, tightening the collars of his robes around his neck.

He wasn’t sure he should be doing what he was doing. His heart beat heavy and hard in his chest, his throat thick. His feet felt disjointed from his body, thudding to the ground in an uneven beat.

But he couldn’t help but think that Glorfindel must be _lonely,_ and that maybe a familiar face—even if it was the face of an old, contentious councilor, hardly anyone important— could comfort him. He owed him that, no matter what else might exist in Erestor’s heart. The kindest elf in Beleriand deserved some kindness in return. And, Erestor winced, he had an apology to make. Their first meeting today had been less than… welcoming.

When Eönwe arrived he did so out of _nowhere,_ appearing with a thunderclap and a sunburst of light in the middle of a suddenly vanished cloudbank. And, behind him, cresting over the waves in swan-necked ships, rode Finarfin and all his starry hosts— their snow-white banners thick as cherry blossoms in spring. Then, wonders unceasing, came _Eärendil_ in Viniglöté, hanging from the prow by one hand as his ship flew over the foam with a whoop. Erestor, hip-deep in Orcish viscera, watched with a distant detachment as those around him danced or sang or cried in joy or confusion or sorrow—he could not tell and did not, in truth, care. So the gods had come to save them at last. About _fucking_ time.

Oh, but _then—_

He looked to Finarfin’s right shoulder and there, across the battlefield and the waves, he met aquamarine eyes set in a beloved _—dead you fool, he was dead and gone, but then, no one had eyes like that—_ face and no, it wasn’t Glorfindel, it couldn’t be—

Erestor froze. His heart, he was sure, stopped. He waited, still as a block of ice, until the host disembarked and then Glorfindel, or the ghost that looked like Glorfindel, marched up to Gil-galad and said, “My Lord, I am Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower.”

It was the voice that did it, at last. The sound of that rich voice shattered Erestor like a hammer’s blow and he fled—away from those impossible blue eyes searching for him, away from that voice and the half-called “Eres—”, away to the darkness of an abandoned tent where he fell to his knees and _wailed._

_Glorfindel Glorfindel Glorfindel—_

And what was he going to do _now_ , in a world where the dead rose and he couldn’t pretend, not anymore, that he had never loved—

Erestor wrenched his thoughts away. No.

He put his head down and did not turn his steps back to the Fëanoryn tent. He— he would do this. He would offer welcome and kindness to an old friend—acquaintance? Oh _gods—_

Erestor grit his teeth and walked faster. He would _get this over with._

He found his tent easily enough, the fabled golden bloom floating in the wind (everything within a fifty-mile radius of Eönwë was filled with wind) above a modest, if well apportioned, dwelling. No guards circled the perimeter (he would have sent them away), and only a faint light came from inside.

For a few stretching moments Erestor stood outside the tent, his hand on the creased opening of the canvas. He bid his heart be calm, his feet re-attach themselves to his legs. He was here to offer welcome to one who, so many years ago, had offered welcome to an undeserving outsider. An equal exchange. Nothing more.

He took a breath, held it, and released. “May I enter, my Lord?” he called.

A startled shuffle. “You may.”

Erestor pulled back the tent flap and stepped inside.

Glorfindel—and oh, by the gods, to see him _up close—_ stood in the center of the tent, still half-dressed in his armor and looking at Erestor with a bewildered distress.

Erestor gathered himself. “I came to offer you welcome, my Lord, since I’m afraid my earlier greeting was… remiss.” He offered Glorfindel a weak smile. “You gave me quite a startle.”

“Thank… you?” Glorfindel replied, with a strange tilt of his head. “I’m sorry I’m unable to, uh, receive your properly,” he gestured to himself, buckles hanging loose from his plate armor. “I, uh, sent them all away to their own business before realizing I can’t get this damn thing off, and then, well, it seemed a little embarrassing to call for help, and,” he giggled, a little desperately, and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’ve only been alive for a week, I’m a little scattered.”

_A week._

Erestor stepped forward. “Let me help you, my Lord.” He said, and reached, almost without thinking, to a loose buckle.

Glorfindel stood there and let him undress him, and as Erestor peeled each piece away Glorfindel relaxed, bit by bit. Erestor, for his part, felt his heart rate pick up, his ears flushing. What was he _doing,_ helping Glorfindel out of his armor like it was yet another day in Gondolin, like the last time Erestor had seen him hadn’t been when Glorfindel was yanked backwards off a cliff, his hair on fire? Erestor’s hands trembled.

“Is it true,” Glorfindel murmured, low. “Is it true the Fëanoryn killed all our people?”

 _Our_ people. Like Erestor wasn’t himself a Fëanoryn. Leave it to Glorfindel to be accepting, welcoming, even after everything. 

Glorfindel shifted. “It’s just, there’s a lot of rumor going around, and I saw those boys with Maglor—”

“It’s true.” Erestor replied, keeping his eyes fixed on Glorfindel’s breastplate. “Two more kinslayings to add to the first. Elrond and Elros are technically hostages, not that anyone still considers that to be the case anymore.”

Glorfindel slumped. “Oh.” He said, and was silent.

Erestor slipped the breastplate and backplate off Glorfindel’s shoulders and set it aside. Glorfindel was clad only in his mail and doublet now, feet in thin socks.

“I wasn’t there, if you were wondering.” Erestor said, his voice tight. “They lied to me and sent me away beforehand.”

Glorfindel gave a little shake of his head, looking away. “Of course you weren’t,” he replied absently, as if there had never been any doubt in his mind. He plucked at his mail, a lost, forlorn look on his face, before pulling it over his head and tossing it away. Then he just stood there, looking at his stockinged feet, breathing like he had to remember how.

“I’m really glad you’re alive, Erestor.” He said, but he didn’t look up. “I’m so glad you made it. I missed you. I don’t remember a lot about… being dead, but I remember that I missed you.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and sighed. “By the gods, I’m tired.”

Erestor gulped. “D-do you have any other robes? I will fetch them for you.” He needed something to fill his hands, something tangible, real.

Glorfindel laughed, bright and sudden as a bell. “You know, I don’t? They stuck me in this armor and then shoved me on a boat with nary a scrap of underthings to call my own.” He held the thick, padded doublet in-between his fingers. “I’ve been sleeping in this thing.”

Erestor blinked at him. “Are you serious?” He said, flat. “You mean to tell me that all The Powers that Be couldn’t get you a pair of _pajamas?”_

When Glorfindel looked back to him it was with a real smile. “Ah, there’s my prickly Councilor. No, apparently not. I get the impression they forget these sorts of things often.”

Erestor watched Glorfindel from the corner of his eye, watched the way his shoulders shifted uncomfortably in his doublet. He remembered all the yards and yards of soft, diaphanous silk Glorfindel would garden in, loving the grit of dirt under his fingernails and the hiss of smooth fabric on his skin all at once, heedless of stains. He remembered Glorfindel’s face as he chastised him for the waste, remembered the replied _But I am only trying to match them, Erestor. A flower among flowers._

“Here,” Erestor unclasped his outer robe. It was thick and heavy, unlike Glorfindel’s old things, but it was of a rich fabric, dyed dark purple and embroidered with twisting ferns in dark green thread. He slipped it off and held it out to Glorfindel, the weight of it solid in his hands. “Wear this, until something more suitable is found. I apologize, it might be a little tight in the shoulders.”

Glorfindel hesitated, something broken wide in his eyes, then reached out and took the robe. “Thank you, Erestor,” he whispered.

And that was about as much as Erestor’s heart could take, so he gave a stiff bow and began making his way to the tent entrance. “I’ll leave you to change, my Lord,” he managed, and before Glorfindel could reply he slipped out into the night.

 _Fool._ He stalked away, his thoughts a drowning cacophony. _You fool, you coward—you never told him and then it was too late, and now, when the Powers themselves have given you a second chance you throw it away, you coward, you—_ his hands clenched into fists. _He missed you, he said he missed_ you _and—_ The wind cut through his thin under-robe. _He deserves to know, at the very least, but you won’t give him even that you—_

Erestor whirled on his feet and strode back. _Fine! If only to get some blessed silence I’ll—_

He pulled back the tent flap “Glor—”

Glorfindel sat on his camp bed, his face buried in Erestor’s robe, sobbing. At Erestor’s entrance he jolted up, “E-Erestor?” He stuttered, smearing teers across his face with the back of his hand. “W-wha—”

“My Lord?” Erestor went to him, fell to his knees before him. “Why are you crying? Did I say something to upset you?” He dared to reach up and wipe away his tears with both his thumbs.

Glorfindel stared at him, dumb. His breath hiccupped.

And Erestor, for the first time, let himself stare back.

 _Glorfindel._ His skin was red and splotchy from where he had been crying and rubbing his face against Erestor’s robe, his blue eyes made more vivid by their red rims. Tears kept spilling over his face, down his neck and into the corner of his mouth, his lips cracked and wet. He watched Erestor with open, anguished _longing,_ his hands drifting up from the robe to tangle, shaking, in Erestor’s hair.

Erestor looked back in astonishment, suddenly not believing his own hands against Glorfindel’s heated cheeks, his own knees on the ground at Glorfindel’s feet—

“I missed you so much,” Glorfindel said. “I’ve been so lonely without you.”

And what else could Erestor do but _kiss him,_ take that trembling mouth and press it against his own—Glorfindel _surged_ up against him, taking Erestor’s face in his hands and drawing him up close, hungry, _starving—_

When they finally pulled away to breathe Erestor sat splay-legged in Glorfindel’s lap, his robe halfway down his shoulders and Glorfindel’s doublet somewhere on the inconsequential ground.

Erestor pressed his forehead to Glorfindel’s, panting. “I missed you too, Glorfindel,” he whispered. “More than you could imagine.”

And oh, he could _feel_ Glorfindel’s answering smile, feel it all the way through his bones.

“ _Darling,_ ” Glorfindel murmured, and pressed a kiss to Erestor’s collarbone. He heaved a huge sigh, peaceful at last. His arms snaked around Erestor’s waist and he drew him close, the heat of him real and true and _oh—_

Erestor slumped down over Glorfindel’s shoulder. Tendrils of golden hair floated around him, nearly orange in the low light from the single brazier. “Beloved,” he let himself say, let himself finally taste that word on his tongue.

_Darling. Beloved._

_Yes._


	3. Tuqburni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond sails at last. 
> 
> A sequel to Syzygy
> 
> Rating: Explicit

The room was very plain, and very old, which fit him, somehow. That was a comfort. Nothing else did these days.

The harbormaster was frantically saying something about the inn not being quite prepared, or, at least Elrond thought that might be what she was saying; he wasn’t quite paying enough attention—or didn’t have enough energy to pay attention—to anything beyond the solidness of the floor beneath his feet. The low lilt of her voice came to him as if from very far away and something in him thought that it sounded almost recognizable, but he couldn’t be sure. Like his Fëanorian fathers, maybe—or maybe he was just desperate for something familiar.

He couldn’t much remember what Maglor and Maedhros sounded like. Trying to remember made the back of throat grow thick and tight, so with a practiced mental twist he gently set the thought aside.

“Whilst ye arrived, we—” The Harbormaster stammered. Elrond looked down to see her hands folded tight together, dark sienna skin turning white. “We dinn’t _know_ —”

The sharp corner from the bulky wooden chest in his arms dug into his fingers. He tried desperately to keep from wincing and failed.

“Thank you, it is quite alright, this is perfectly fine,” he replied, holding up a hand to halt her nervous words. “I would like to rest, if you’ll excuse me.”

She nodded. “A’course, if—”

“I’m sure I’ll call if I need anything,” He said and shut the door in her face. Ai, that was rude, but the chest weighted heavy against his ribs and he was _tired._

The room echoed with the _click_ of the door, then fell into a muffled silence. He gingerly set the chest on the floor at the foot of the bed and sat down, the breath leaving his lungs in a _huff._ The fresh, crisp white sheets beneath him crinkled a little with starch. His fingers brushed lightly over the weave of them, made of some foreign thread. The simple headboard too was foreign, carved of a honey-grey wood that felt smooth as skin, though whether that was from age or nature he didn’t know. Across from him sat a little side table with a pitcher and bowl, a towel made from the same strange fabric as the sheet folded in a neat square next to it. A rug—presumably again of the same fabric, just as the side table and door and floors and walls were of the same wood, were there only two building materials in all of Aman?— lay on the floor. Nothing else existed in the room, just the chest and himself, sweating in his thick wool robes and twisting his hands in the sheets.

Oh, and there was a window, but he preferred not to remember that. Windows meant waiting, watching. Meant _yearning_ for someone that might not come.

A thump sounded from somewhere down the hall, accompanied by a low voice. Mithrandir, perhaps, or Erestor. Frodo and Bilbo were no doubt asleep by now. Outside the sunlight rose high enough to slant over the rug, but their journey from Mithlond had been long and the seas rough. Even Mithrandir had rings under his eyes but when he had looked to Elrond one eyebrow arched in an imperious scold.

 _Is seems to me that you are in need of a nap, my Lord Elrond._ He had said, preening his newly restored wings. _I have not seen such weariness in the face of an elf—even a Peredhel— for some time._

 _I am in need of far more than a nap,_ Elrond had wanted to reply, but instead he’d simply inclined his head. _Perhaps._

Sleep wouldn’t come anyway. He hadn’t slept since he stepped foot on the swan-ship, all those weeks ago, and before that very rarely.

A headache tapped at the space behind his forehead, his eyes hot and dry. He lifted his circlet from his brow and set it aside on the little table. The braids at his temples pulled with a dull pain and he began to untwine them.

 _Beloved,_ he’d written. _Our daughter has fallen in love with a mortal._

Outside he could hear gulls crying. The sun drifted behind a bank of clouds and the light on the rug turned grey.

_I’m sure you already know, somehow. You always were sharper about these things than I am. What gave it away, hm? The fact that I gush about Estel as much as our own children? Though, you know I’ve always considered him ours as well as mine, even if I’ve never said such a thing for the sake of his mother. He’ll be ours officially if Arwen has anything to say about it._

_Oh Beloved, I need you here—I need you to tell me how I’m going to leave them behind._

He should probably undress. Wool was unsuited for this breezy sea climate. His robes sagged around him—had he lost that much weight? He hadn’t eaten much on the ship; apparently being The Mariner’s son didn’t mean he was immune to getting violently seasick. Even now he could still feel the deck heaving beneath him, though he had to admit that seasickness was a useful disguise for heartsickness. He didn't need his friends crowding him, even in their kindness. 

_Beloved, can you see our children from where you are? Can you see me?_

His hair caught around his fingers and he tugged hard, hissing. Another shuffle of movement creaked from somewhere below him and he flinched. Galadriel? Though perhaps she slept, he could not say. They had avoided each other these past days, unwilling to share their loneliness with each other. He could see his fear mirrored in her eyes, and it overwhelmed him. 

He kept expecting to hear the twins’ footsteps in the hall—each strange noise a herald to their presence. He sighed, leaving his braids half-unwound.

There had been a time when, sick of always being mistaken for the other, Elladan and Elrohir had walked about separately; but such adolescent angst was soon forgotten. More often than not these days they walked as one, their four feet making them sound like some large, magical cat stalking through the halls. A magical cat that would slink into his office and wrap its arms around him, eyes alight with mischief and affection as it asked for permission for yet another wild scheme. If he leaned back and closed his eyes, could he almost imagine the door silently opening, admitting his twin stars to alight around his shoulders?

But they were yet in Gondor, living with their sister and brother, and even so he had not heard their footsteps in the hall since before he—he had—since they left on their—their mission to find their brother and then _die_ by his side with the other Dúnedain at the Black Gates, because—because—

His hands trembled in his lap and he clenched them against his robes.

After the Siege of Imladris—the one in the second age, the one that cut them off from Mithlond for weeks, the one where every day he received letters from Sauron himself with little tidbits of almost-helpful information coded in long, lovingly detailed letters about what Sauron was going to _do to him_ once he took Imladris, _that_ Siege— the tremors seemed to live in his bones. He couldn’t _stop,_ couldn’t stop shaking long enough to even sleep for longer than a few seconds. It wasn’t until Ereinion charged into Imladris and _kissed_ him in front of the whole assembly that they began to subside, and then it wasn’t until he took Elrond into his room and _fucked_ him, _claimed_ him, _brought him back_ from the battle he hadn’t been able to leave, that the shaking stopped.

 _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,_ he had nuzzled into the crook of Elrond’s neck afterwards, his tears smearing against his skin. _I don’t think I’ll ever be able to—to forgive myself._ Elrond hadn’t known what he meant, not when everything felt so _right_ in his arms. The next morning Celebrían had arrived, sneaking in to their bed to curl Elrond up between them, and the long months of blood and night washed away.

He hadn’t known what it meant to do something unforgivable until he had to send his own children to their deaths.

Because it was the only way. The only hope left. And he would still never forgive himself for it, for sending them away while Arwen yet faded, when they were _his sons,_ and he _knew_ it would be the end of them—

 _I had to,_ he had written. _To find Estel. To offer what they can. I—_ his pen had skittered across the page, away from him. _I do not believe they shall return. I cannot follow, Vilya is already strained to breaking with keeping our daughter alive and—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please forgive me—_

And yet—

He forced out a calming breath through his nose, bringing himself back to the present. The future he had feared had not come to pass.

Miracle upon miracles, they lived. They lived. They had survived to return to him with only a few bruises and the patience to tolerate him as he fluttered around them like a hysterical, overprotective hen and tended to their every scratch. That was a truth irrefutable, even if he could not run to their rooms and remind himself of it.

And they lived to _flourish,_ all four of them helping to rebuild a city, a kingdom, a people— and he was so _proud,_ proud of his brave, beautiful, _magnificent_ children, and he couldn’t stop singing their praises even as his great weariness overtook him.

A breeze shook the window frame, _clatta-clk-clk._ He shuddered.

 _Would that I could stay, Beloved._ The last letter was smeared with tears. _Would that I could see our grandchildren, could stay by Arwen and Estel’s sides until it was time for them to pass, could spent every last second with them—but I am nearly spent. My hands shake with even the effort to write this. I hear your voice in Arwen’s mouth, telling me to go, to rest, to heal in the Land of the Gods. “You will wound yourself beyond bearing, Ada, if you stay,” she says, and she gives me the quilt to give to you._

She— _Celebrían—_

Mothers were supposed to stitch a quilt for their daughters, to lie over their marriage bed, only—only Celebrían hadn’t had the chance, before. So Arwen and Estel had made one for Celebrían instead, the both of them—Estel guiding Arwen’s hand with the needle, his ranger’s skills proving themselves against her refusal to learn embroidery, even after all these years— and when they gave it to him to—to—

 _Celebrían._ His lip trembled.

_Arwen says that I should go to you, which is to say that all of them think I need you and they’ve decided that she should be the one to tell me. Ah, my dear, we have raised a parliament to legislate against me._

_How to tell them that I’ve always needed you? Needed you beyond bearing? How to tell them that we’ve had too much practice in needing someone we had no hope in ever seeing again?_

Perhaps she had stayed in this very room, when she arrived. The thought struck him like a blow. Suddenly his robes prickled against his skin, unbearable.

Was it like this for her? So much sleeplessness, sickness turning over in her gut like it clenched in his? He picked at the skin over his wrist. Her stitches wouldn’t have come out until after the journey. Did she lie on a bed like this, plucking at them? There were seventy-two on the back of her thighs and over her buttocks alone, did they sting as she sat? Another two-hundred and fourteen crisscrossed her back, would she have been able to lie down? In Imladris, she could. Curled next to him in their bed, supported by his arms, she could lie down and snatch a few minutes of sleep. It hadn’t been enough—nothing had been enough—but as he looked over the alien landscape of this little room, breathed the strange air of Aman, felt the uncanny _push_ of the Land of the Gods, he wondered how any of this could have possibly been more healing than his own hands.

He still didn’t know if she’d made it, or if—if she—

He put his hands back at his side with a deliberate firmness. The skin at his wrist burned a little.

She was fading ere she left him. It was only when he knew that it would kill her to stay that he begged her to leave, begged her to take that one slim chance that Aman offered. She’d nearly refused, vowing to fight it, at least until, until—

“Don’t leave me _alone_ — _please_ , Celebrían—we have lost one lover already; do not make me suffer your loss too, and this without anyone to comfort me.”

So she went. And he wrote her a letter every day and sent them off in chests sealed in wax whenever Círdan sent off another one of his ships. No reply ever returned—such things were forbidden, no matter how much he yearned. Exceptions were made for his Star-Father, not for him.

He’d sent the last of his letters with the ship that sailed just before his, superstitiously feeling the need to say all of his words before he left. The _very_ last chest hunched at the foot of the bed, filled with the huge quilt, a white tree stitched in mithril splayed across midnight-black velvet.

_And how to tell you that our twins, our firstborn sons, may never sail? For that is the thought that torments me day and night—that all our children may yet be lost. That I shall never see the tombs erected for them in Gondor, shall never be able to lay myself down at their feet and beg the gods to take my Peredhellen Choice from me._

_Will I be able to bear it? My parents, my brother, our heart’s-husband, our children— all lost to me, all gone?_

Was this his fate? To lose and lose and lose over and over and over?

He ached. He leaned over his knees and pressed his hands to his face, his hair falling like a shadow around him.

He wished, somehow, that Ereinion were here. He did that often.

_I still think about him all the time. Didn’t I say that in my last letter? And the one before that? I don’t know if I’ll get over him. I think you would tell me not to try, but you know, I think he’d want me to do it. He’d want us to get over him. He’d want us to “be happy,” the self-sacrificing bastard._

_I still need him. I need him as much as I’ve ever needed you, needed air to breathe._

_He couldn’t stop telling me that he was sorry, in Dagorlad. You know how he ~~says~~ said those things,_   _more with his body instead of his mouth. I still have all that hair—the long, thick braid he cut and gave to me a week before._

_It helped, somehow. I couldn’t quite believe that it was really him in that grave, not with short hair._

A pair of boots strode up, then down, the hall. Glorfindel, if he wasn’t mistaken—he had a particular stride when he was thinking something desperate. The inn fell back into a low hum, the shufflings and murmurings of the people inside muffled by the rhythmic _schhhhh_ of the sea outside.

Elrond rubbed at his temples, his thoughts turned to his friend. Poor Glorfindel. No doubt he was in a frenzy. What report would he give to the gods? The fabled warrior, rescued from the brink of death—no doubt the gods would expect a good story in return for their intervention.

And what of _Glorfindel_ , or, rather, the _question_ of Glorfindel? Could not Ereinion be snatched from the brink as well?

But not even Glorfindel could tell if he’d died and been reincarnated, or if he’d merely been snatched from Namó’s grasp at the last moment, rescued by the gods from his burial mound in some strange miracle. All he knew of the situation was that he yet lived beyond what he should have—and all Elrond knew of loss told him that wishing the dead would arise again would lead him to madness.

No. Elrond had set aside such thoughts long ago.

There had been a few brief seconds after Elrond found Ereinion’s body when he believed— _hoped, begged—_ that the gods might bring him back too, like they must’ve brought Glorfindel back. His blood was still warm where it— _oh gods, his_ blood— seeped through the cracks in Elrond’s armor, and—and perhaps that was a flicker of life in his dull grey eyes? Maybe— _maybe—_

But no. No.

Ereinion was dead.

_Do you remember, how we wondered, how we hoped? Even after you left nigh hundreds of my people came to me for help healing their minds, the thought of a reborn elf tormenting them beyond belief. What if—how—why— all those useless questions. I remember us whispering them against each other’s mouths in the still of the night, weeping. But out children needed—and still need, I think, in a way—us, and some questions are a luxury we can’t afford._

_But I am so lonely, Beloved, and sometimes I wonder if the sweet torment those questions offered was worth it, to some._

_I suppose when I arrive, such questions will be answered for me. Perhaps Glorfindel_ was _raised from the dead—perhaps a few favored others will be raised as well. The Land of the Gods holds many mysteries._

_Ereinion will not be among them, that is certain. Somehow I don’t think that the King who refused their injunction to sail to Aman would be favored enough to receive such a gift. My fathers certainly wouldn’t—ha! As if the gods would ever risk having reborn Fëanoryn running around._

They’d managed after Ereinion died. Barely, but managed. The two of them had walked as if they’d each lost a leg, and could only limp along by leaning on each other. It was only after the twins were born that they began to believe things might eventually be all right, even if the task of parenting two children while still deep in grief proved nearly insurmountable.

But they’d managed. And, then, they did better than managed, even if the hole in their hearts never filled. It was his final gift to them: life, and the freedom to live it.

But on whom would Elrond lean if— if she—?

_And you—I know not if you even live this side of Mandos. Have I been writing to the wind, all these years? Did you find your life unable to carry, do you now live with Míriel and weave our stories? Did I make a mistake, sending you away? Are you lost to me as well?_

_You haunt me, Beloved._

_And I must sail, and the question that has drowned my heart in dread all these many years must finally be answered, and I think I might die from the answering of it._

The sun had fallen into twilight while he wasn’t paying attention—hadn’t he arrived in the morning? Muted purple light suffused through the room, bathing his deep golden skin in a cool blue. A cold wind cut through a crack in the window frame, brushing like a nettle against his neck.

Glorfindel’s steps sounded through the hall again, then a door slammed open somewhere and an exasperated voice growled something that might’ve been a scold. Erestor, probably. A glow of affection pushed its way up through the turmoil of his thoughts. His squabbling councilors. He was so very fond of them.

He halfway wished that he could join them, could stand from the bed and stretch his stiff joints, open the door and enjoy himself watching as his friends squawked at each other like ravens. But that would mean exposing himself, opening himself up to the way Erestor and Glorfindel would no doubt look at him, would ask, _Are you looking forward to seeing your wife? Have you heard any news from her? What do you think Celebrían will say to you when you meet again? Did Arwen send you anything to give her mother? Do you miss your children? Do you think you will be happy here?_ All those unanswerable questions—and then there would be no hiding the horror in his eyes, the fear, and if he was going to have a breakdown then he’d rather not have one in front of his friends.

The scuffling stopped. Erestor’s voice faded. Elrond looked down at his hands to see them trembling, even as they clutched white-knuckled at his robes. His arms trembled too, and his shoulders, his chest—then a deep tremor worked its way up from his stomach through his whole body, and when he breathed in his breath shook.

Tomorrow he would have to give the Harbormaster Celebrían’s name, and ask her to give him the answer. He’d avoided it thus far, simply waving her off when she’d asked if he had any family for whom she could send. She’d seemed confused at that, and it was only by the gods’ grace that Erestor hadn’t been around to also be confused by his silence— _oh_ , Elrond could feel their eyes on him, digging, _probing_ deep into the vulnerable meat inside him, _searching—_

There was only so much time he could spend here, in this room, ignoring the window overlooking the strange land that was supposed to become his new home. There was only so much time he could avoid the inevitable truth.

He had no room in his heart for hope. An invitation for hope would also mean an invitation for fear, and it took all of his strength to keep himself from jumping in the sea and swimming, or _sinking— Ai,_ he couldn’t _bear it anymore—_

Determined footsteps rang through the hall, approaching. Glorfindel again? No, not this time, and though the tread was familiar Elrond couldn’t quite place it.

The footsteps stopped. A knock rapped at the door. _Damn._ Elrond scrubbed at his face with his hands, weary. He couldn’t make himself lift his voice to answer—only, the door opened anyway.

And—

And Elrond’s breath froze in his throat—

And he must’ve fallen asleep, he must be _dreaming,_ only—

 _Only_ —

“ _Finally—”_ Ereinion _growled_ , stalking into the room and slamming the door behind him, his flashing mithril eyes pinning Elrond in place more surely than aeglos’ blade. Suddenly it seemed as if the whole room turned towards him, towards— _E-Ereinion?_ The rug and the window and the walls and floors, the everything in the world turning to bow their heads in deference and awe— _oh—_ that feline _grace_ and inescapable _presence_ unchanged, oh _gods—_ _completely_ unchanged after—

Elrond’s jaw might’ve dropped, or not, he couldn’t really tell much of anything right now, not with—with _him,_ with _Ereinion Gil-galad,_ standing not five feet away, _alive—?_ Elrond blinked, stunned, suddenly feeling both out of his skin and very, very much aright within it, all his unknown disjointed pieces slotting back into place and he—how?

Elrond found himself standing, unsure hands reaching out to balance himself against the headboard, the table, his knees weak— “I’m dreaming,” he mumbled, everything inside him gone scattered like rain through leaves. “I’m dreaming, I’m—”

And then Ereinion’s _mouth_ swallowed the rest of his words, his hands like iron on Elrond’s hips, his back, drawing him up into the lee of his chest.

“Does this feel like a dream, love?” he whispered against Elrond’s lips, his breath ghosting hot then cool over wet skin. His hands traveled up Elrond’s sides, rucking up his robes and curving him flush up against his chest. Elrond’s hands unconsciously traveled their old paths over Ereinion’s breast, his collarbones, his shoulders—oh, the _heat_ of his body, burning through his light tunic and Elrond’s robes, reaching inside and _burning—_ How had he _forgotten?_ What it was like to simply _exist_ in a room with _Ereinion_? All that wheat-gold hair whipping behind him like a lightning-strike, those spear-straight shoulders looming over him with a palpable sense of _intent—_ had he forgotten what it _meant_ be the being upon which that gaze _fell—?_

Elrond’s legs finally gave out and there was a distant clatter followed by the sound of porcelain shattering— the table and pitcher, no doubt, but what did that _matter?_ What did _anything_ matter when—!

 _“Ereinion—!”_ Elrond choked, and threw his arms around Ereinion’s neck and they tumbled down on the little bed, hair and robes and limbs tangling up in a heap.

Ereinion’s weight—by the gods, he was so _heavy,_ Elrond had forgotten, how could he have— pinned him to the mattress, hips slotting with easy familiarity between Elrond’s legs. His hands found Elrond’s face and he kissed him again and again, open-mouthed and _sharp_ , all that hair falling around them like a curtain and turning the last of the day’s light a glimmering silver.

All Elrond could do in return was moan, broken, hands scrabbling weakly at Ereinion’s back, the folds of his tunic. “How—? Ereinion, _how—_?” he whimpered, gasping for air.

“Hush, love, hush.” Ereinion pulled back, panting slightly. He brushed Elrond’s nose with his own, feather light and so _easy,_ like thousands of years hadn’t passed since they’d last— “All shall be told, in due time.” His voice, pure starlight, suffused through Elrond like mist and he slumped back against the bed, liquid.

“There we go,” Ereinion murmured against the curve of his jaw. “Let me take care of you.” Then he sat back on his haunches and began undoing the buttons on Elrond’s robes one-by-one, a little pleased lilt in his mouth. “Here, shall I tell you all now? I think that would be best.” He smoothed a hand under the collar of Elrond’s robes, the callouses on his fingers rough against the tender skin of his throat.

Elrond lay back, helpless, completely at the mercy of Ereinion’s hands and voice and gaze, his senses flooded to overwhelming with _him,_ with the way he touched him, looked at him, spoke gently to him— all his fears yet clung to him only now _Ereinion_ was—was _here,_ wiping the darkness off his skin with every sweep of his hands, his mouth—

“I _know_ you,” Ereinion chuckled, low, his palm running down under the thick wool to press above Elrond’s thundering heart. “Patient up ‘til the moment you must have everything at once. Shall I give you everything then, hm?” There was a wetness in his eyes that belied his casual words, a roughness in his voice that only appeared with the ache of memory.

Elrond whined high in his throat, clutching at Ereinion’s sleeves. He—oh, he _did_ know, didn’t he? He _knew_ Elrond, knew what he needed, and he was going to _give it to him—_

“I am alive, as you may have gathered,” Ereinion said, the rest of the buttons releasing as if on command under his fingers. “Though I did die, that was no trick. We got your letters—you were _slightly_ mistaken about Glorfindel, though there’s no way you could’ve known. He was dead too, and the gods raised him up again just as they did me, only, he was returned to Middle Earth for a purpose and I was kept here. Quite against my will, I assure you.” His voice swung low, so calm but for a sliver of desperation underneath, his breath coming quick. He peeled Elrond’s robes off his shoulders, exposing his bare skin to the cool air, and set to work tossing slippers and socks aside.

Elrond blinked. “…We? You mean—” His heart skipped, stuttered—

Ereinion grinned, bright as starlight. “Ah, yes, Celebrían will be here soon— tomorrow, most likely— only, she wanted to fetch Maglor and Maedhros and _I_ couldn’t wait that long, so—”

_She—? They—?_

And _that_ broke him wide open like a pomegranate and he burst into tears, everything rushing up all at once and yanking him under a high-tide wave, all salt and flickering light— Celebrían _lived,_ and she had been _safe_ with Ereinion _this whole time_ — _he_ had taken care of her when Elrond couldn’t, just as he had _always_ taken care of them, just as true now as it was then— and—and _Maglor_? _Maedhros_? His family? His— _Ada? Ada!_

He threw an elbow over his eyes, overwhelmed. Miracles didn’t happen, they just _didn’t_ —only, _ha,_ he’d lived through a few miracles, hadn’t he? Quite a few, in fact! A bubble of laughter burst from somewhere within the tightness of his throat, gurgling up to peal through the room. _Miracles!_ And him, blesséd enough—or _stubborn_ enough—to live long enough to _hoard_ them like gold, oh!

“Ai, love,” Ereinion scooped him up from the pile of his robes and drew him close, thumbing away his tears and chuckling at him with a wet roughness. “Come here, my sparrow,” he murmured, teeth scraping along the curve of Elrond’s throat like a match on stone. “Ai, how I’ve _missed you,_ you brave, beautiful thing, I’m so _proud_ of you—! My _faithful one_ , my _north star_ —”

Elrond pressed his eyes to the curve of Ereinion’s neck, fisting his hands in his thin tunic. Relief swept over him, his spine slumping like an unstrung bow. Ereinion’s words sank through him like spring through ice—in fits and starts, the truth illuminated one moment and shadowed the next, half of his heart disbelieving while the other half scrambled to lap up every impossible sweetness fate had seen fit to give him.

Ereinion reached down to cup his ass, hoisting him higher on his thighs and Elrond was beginning to _awaken_ to what it felt like to gulp in the smell of Ereinion’s skin, to arch up into a strength greater than his own, to—to feel safe, to feel aright within himself. In a burst of long-forgotten instinct he rolled his hips up into Ereinion’s lap, whining at the friction. At least his _body_ remembered—remembered Ereinion pressing him down into his bed in Imladris after the siege, the acrid smell of the mountains burning still cloying his mouth as Ereinion dipped down to let him drink from his lips, drawing him up from the ashes of war—

And he—he was home from war now, wasn’t he?

“Ereinion—” Elrond rasped, hitching his hips forward. “I _need—_ ”

“I know, love.” Ereinion shushed, laying him back down on the bed to slip his leggings down his thighs. “Let me give you what you need.”

“Do it _faster,_ ” Elrond snapped, kicking his leggings free.

Ereinion nipped him for that, a starburst of pain right on the ridge of his hipbone. “I’d wondered if your impertinence had mellowed—apparently not. Will you be silent, or must I find another use for your mouth?”

Elrond buried his hands up to the wrist in Ereinion’s hair and _yanked,_ snarling a smile at the way Ereinion’s eyes fluttered closed. He almost felt young again, spry and playful as a fox kit in spring. “Ai, my King! Have I not vowed to let you use me as you will? Command me, that I may—”

Ereinion did silence him then, kissing more with teeth than tongue, smiling with brutal happiness as he lapped at the blood from Elrond’s chapped, split lips.

It was exactly how they had been, teasing and playing just sharp enough to _hurt,_ drawing the pain away from the wounds they carried and into the circle of themselves. War lingered, snatching at their edges with sticky, blood-soaked hands— but they could take away its sting and make it their own, their own gift to each other.

There was the sound of cloth tearing and then Elrond had Ereinion’s tunic up over his head, gone. He shoved at Ereinion’s leggings with the heels of his feet, hands too busy flattening themselves on every available inch of Ereinion’s pale skin, the rapid rise and fall of his freckled breast a revelation all its own. Ereinion tolerated Elrond’s fumbling long enough for his cock—already erect and flushed purple and Elrond choked a little, just staring at it—to escape the confines of his leggings and underclothes. Then he pinned Elrond’s fluttering hands above his head by the wrist with one hand while the other dragged a swath of fire down his chest, down his belly, _down_ —

 _Mine,_ his hands said. _Mine—no more shall you belong to fear, no more, no more—you belong to_ me, _mine—_

Slick fingers— _where_ had he, oh, _of course_ he’d come prepared— circled Elrond’s cock and pumped once, those thrice-blesséd callouses catching a little under the crown before Ereinion released him to trail slick over his perineum, down the cleft of his ass.

 _Nngh_ — “ _Ereinion_ —” Elrond bit off a hiss as Ereinion pressed one finger inside, curling up and _almost—_

“Breathe, love.” Ereinion’s hair trailed down over his chest, caressing up the curve of his ribs and Elrond might’ve listened to him save that Ereinion chose that moment to lean down and _suck_ at his nipple, and after that breathing wasn’t possible, really, anymore.

All the strangeness, the foreignness of the world siphoned away. Ereinion’s hands, vice-tight on his wrists and knuckle-deep inside him, set him on the path home. Soon, _soon,_ Celebrían would come and tether his ragged spirit down at last, her arms the harbor to which he would always return home— but he had a little while to go yet, and now he need not travel alone.

Elrond writhed under Ereinion’s grip, bucking up and pressing his chest into Ereinion’s mouth as he suckled and pinched at Elrond’s breast with his teeth. His fingers kept _just_ skirting where Elrond _needed_ them to be, thrusting languidly up into him with a casual, infuriating possessiveness.

“ _By all the gods,_ you _fiend,_ you denizen of Gothmog, you _tease_ —” Elrond wrapped his thighs around Ereinion’s hips, feet struggling for purchase on that broad back as he jerked up, desperate for Ereinion’s fingers to find _there, yes—!_

“Not so fast, you precocious little thing,” Ereinion released his hands only to slam his hips back down, pinning him. A vexing grin curled his mouth and he laved that devilish tongue over a raw, smarting love-bite, chuckling low. “I’ve had _three thousand years_ of waiting, I’ll not have you rush me now.”

Hands free, Elrond fisted the soft hairs at the base of Ereinion’s neck and wrenched him up until their faces were merely a hair’s width apart, their breath mingling. “Y-you—” Elrond stuttered and _oh gods,_ Ereinion’s fingers brushed, then _stroked—_ “ _Fuck_ me, Ereinion—I—I’ve waited _too long_ with _too little_ _hope_ , I _need—”_

The last of the lingering purple light from the window sifted away into the dull, unreachable orange of hidden lanterns. The playfulness left Ereinion’s eyes and he kissed the corner of Elrond’s mouth, sweet and dark. “As you wish, love.”

He lifted Elrond’s left leg up over his shoulder and pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of his knee, his eyes slits of starlight through his lowered lashes. His fingers withdrew only to be replaced with the thick crown of his cock, pressing gently against him. His hips canted, questioning.

Some aching thing, some lonely thing inside himself he’d ignored for the last three thousand years lifted its head and mewled, unused to—to _comfort,_ to gladness, to receiving what it needed. Elrond’s throat clenched and he grit his teeth, desperate to be _filled._ He wove his fingers around Ereinion’s neck, spreading his legs, opening, and nodded, _yes, oh, by all the gods, take me, use me, devour me whole, make me yours again, please yes—_

And then Ereinion did as he was bid and pushed _inside,_ his mouth falling open in a silent _oh!_ as his cock dragged a low, delicious flame along the base of Elrond’s spine. Slowly, slowly, then—

 _Finally—_ Elrond’s head lolled back against the sheets, gasping weakly. His discarded robes rucked up beneath him, wool prickling sparks on his sweaty skin and he could feel a bruise forming on his hip—no doubt from the table’s edge earlier, or maybe Ereinion’s mouth, it didn’t matter which—what _mattered_ was this impossibility made flesh arching over him, towing him under—

“ _Eru Above,”_ Ereinion groaned, smearing his mouth along the tender crease of Elrond’s knee. “How did I ever live without you? Without _this?_ ” He nudged up, the feel of his cock pulsing deep sending Elrond spiraling down into some bejeweled world of aching bliss.

“ _Nghh—_ ” Elrond managed, head thrown back, breath short.

A smile quirked the corner of Ereinion’s mouth. “Indeed.” And he snapped his hips forward and drove in with enough force to make Elrond _keen_ with the impact—

“ _Ere—ah—!”_ It was all Elrond could do to keep his eyes open, fixed on Ereinion’s face, greedy for every moment—

The smile on Ereinion’s face grew. “Will you sing to me, my sparrow?” He leaned down, bending Elrond’s leg until it was nearly flush with his belly. Then he ground his hips down, his thick, _perfect_ cock rocking in and out as he watched Elrond with an unhurried, luxurious contentment, so damnably _smug_ and _pleased,_ pleased with _him,_ with _Elrond—_

Elrond thrashed beneath him, jerking helplessly at the firework crackle building in the tips of his fingers, his toes, licking up his arms and leg to race down his spine— _ah!_ He tangled his hands in Ereinion’s hands and _held on._ “ _Harder_ , you—”

Ereinion’s mouth crashed into his and he— _he—_

Distantly Elrond registered the _slam! slam! slam!_ of the headboard against the wall, the window frame juddering. A silly little thought managed to flit through his mind, wondering, _whoever designed this room didn’t plan for the inevitable, did they—?_ But then Ereinion lifted Elrond’s hips and _bit_ his already bruised lips and snuck a hand between them to grasp his neglected cock and oh, _oh! oh Ereinion—!_

And every coherent thought burst into blinding white light and dissolved away.

 

When Elrond managed to come back to himself he found breathing difficult, since the body of a very tall, very heavy elf-king currently occupied his chest. He winced, his ass throbbing and his oversensitive cock pressed between them, and he gingerly shifted until he wasn’t so pinched. Blond hair pooled around them, sticking to his arms, his neck, his mouth, _everywhere—_ Ereinion must’ve grown it out again.

“Ereinion, darling,” Elrond murmured, unable to find it in himself to be annoyed. The _weight_ of him. That was a miracle too.

Ereinion hummed, nuzzling up against Elrond’s collarbone. Ai, he was always a sap after sex, pliant and tender and unwilling to let Elrond out of his sight. He heaved a great sigh and curled closer, his fingers searching up Elrond’s ribs.

So familiar—as if they were in their bed in Imladris, Celebrían stepped out for a few moments and they two left to wait in a satisfied haze for her return. The thought wove through him like a cat through his legs, melancholy. He wished they _were_ in Imladris, or, better still, Gondor. His chest ached. 

“I _missed_ you,” Elrond whispered, wrapping his arms around every inch of Ereinion he could reach. “I missed you _so much.”_

Ereinion stilled. “I’m sorry I left,” he said, quiet. “I should have made a better way for you, than to leave you to fight him alone.”

“You know, I don’t think I would have understood you a hundred years ago?” Elrond carded his fingers through the soft hair behind Ereinion’s ears. “I do now.”

Ereinion sighed, the shadows on his back rising and falling. He didn’t reply.

The light from the lanterns outside left orange imprints in the air. The hallway beyond the door was mysteriously quiet, or—Elrond felt his mouth twitch—considering the dent the headboard undoubtedly left in the wall, not-so-mysteriously. Erestor, no doubt, would have a few pointed glares for him in the morning.

He followed the channel of Ereinion’s spine with his fingertips, pensive and peaceful both. His gaze followed the trail of his fingers, dipping down to— “Ereinion. Do you still have your _shoes_ on?”

Ereinion lifted himself up in his elbows, twisting around. “Oh. I suppose I do.”

“You fool,” Elrond shoved him off, snickering. “Take them off and get me something with which to clean myself, I’m getting sticky.”

Ereinion acquiesced, grumbling as he yanked his boots and leggings off and tossed them somewhere with a _thunk._ Then he looked down at the floor. “Ah. Well, you broke—”

“ _You_ broke,” Elrond interrupted, glancing over to the shattered remains of the pitcher, water soaking through the rug and Ereinion’s clothes.

“ _We_ broke the pitcher. So either I’ll have to go galloping down to the kitchen in the nude to get another one, or you’ll have to deal with it for now.” Ereinion crawled back in bed and looped his arms around Elrond, his mind obviously already made up.

Elrond ran a hand through the come drying on his stomach. “Do not take this as precedent, my King,” he grimaced, but allowed Ereinion to gather him up to his side. “I expect you’ll repay me for my discomfort.”

“Of course, of course,” Ereinion replied in the way he did when he intended to do no such thing. A quilt appeared from somewhere near the foot of the bed and he threw it over them, tucking them in warm, quiet darkness.

And the world began to bloom before him then, the shifting shadows of his doubt seeping out like low tide. Elrond felt cracked open, stuffed with flowers and ferns like old bones given new life in the undergrowth.

Elrond turned to Ereinion and whispered, “Tell me, love, do Celebrían and my parents get along?” The words leapt over his tongue like fireflies, impossibly bright behind his teeth.

“If she weren’t living with me she’d be living with Maglor, so well do they suit each other,” he nosed at the shell of Elrond’s ear, smiling.

Elrond sighed. _Of course._ His gentle father and his radiant wife—of course they’d get along. Of course.

“She and Maedhros took a little longer to connect,” Ereinion continued, huffing a laugh. Some entertaining memory, no doubt. “But he is her fiercest advocate against those who would speak ill of her scars. He retained less of them than he might have—his hand is restored to him—but enough that they have found kinship in it.”

Her scars. His heart tightened inside his chest. Ai, but she was _well,_ wasn’t she? She had found the peace she needed. There was no need to fear.

“As for your birth-parents,” Ereinion continued, pursing his lips. “We have only seen them a few times, and that not for very long. They still shepherd the simaril and have little time for us here on the ground. But they love her and make her gifts of the mysterious things that hang in the sky. Elwing, I think, is particularly enamored of her.”

Elrond paused, tracing down the curve of Ereinion’s collarbone with his fingers. “And our wife is well.” A statement, not a question.

Ereinion tucked a lock of Elrond’s tangled hair behind his ear. “Yes,” he murmured, gentle. “Very much so. The first years were difficult, yes, but she healed, and now she flourishes. Don’t worry. You’ll see.”

Elrond leaned into Ereinion’s hand and kissed the palm, his heart swelling in thankfulness and joy. “You know, I think there is a story hidden in your words about Maedhros. You shall have to tell me it some time.”

Ereinion snorted. “There are a few stories, and more than a few bruised egos. Scars are sometimes seen as an oddity here—or worse, a horror—and not all are as kind as they should be. Thankfully, Maedhros’ renewed body is just as tall and imposing as ever— but I think that story would be better told from their mouths, and you will have opportunity soon enough to ask them yourself for the tale.”

Elrond slumped, weary to the marrow, and gave Ereinion a little smile. “I will, won’t I?” he replied. A smile trembled, then spread over his face. “Tell me, love, are there any other impossible things I should know about? Do diamonds grow on trees here?”

Ereinion pressed a kiss to his brow, and Elrond could feel his laugh reverberating through their bodies. “No, no diamonds, though there’s this fruit called a _mango_ I’ve been dying— _ha—_ to show you.”

Elrond muffled his giggle in the hollow of Ereinion’s collarbones. “You’re—” a yawn split his sentence— “insufferable.”

“Come now, my sparrow.” Strong arms folded him up, skin to precious skin. “Sleep. All else will come in time.”

Elrond’s eyes drooped. “As you command, my King,” he mumbled, blond hair catching at the corner of his mouth. His breathing evened, deepened, matched the rise and fall of Ereinion’s chest.

The night weighted heavy against him, the late hour and his long weariness catching up to him at last. Ereinion’s breath stirred the light hairs at his temple, the long length of his body like the range of the Misty Mountains beside him. It was worth weeping over again—the joy, the _unbelievable_ joy of it, like walking into the sun after a lifetime imprisoned in caves— save, he had nothing left in him for anything but an exhausted sense of well-being, of _rightness_ within the world. He could save weeping for the morrow. Tomorrow held time enough for joy.


End file.
